


heavy

by onbeinganangel



Series: kinkuary 2021 [28]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood Play, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Coming In Pants, Denial of Feelings, Dirty Talk, Edging, Erotic Electrostimulation, Facials, Finger Sucking, Frottage, HP Kinkuary 2021, Hair Kink, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Knife Play, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other: See Story Notes, Overstimulation, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Size Kink, Spanking, dubious consent due to alcohol consumption, enemies to fuckbuddies to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:47:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29860401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onbeinganangel/pseuds/onbeinganangel
Summary: Potter isn’t nearly as slick as he thinks he is, is all Draco can think about through the alcohol haze and the dizzying atmosphere of the club. He really, really isn’t. Potter is across the club, surrounded by his usual entourage, looking at Draco when he thinks Draco isn’t looking back.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: kinkuary 2021 [28]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2137662
Comments: 35
Kudos: 162
Collections: HP Kinkuary 2021





	heavy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skeptique](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeptique/gifts), [thestarryknight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestarryknight/gifts), [tackytiger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tackytiger/gifts).



> (time to finally run outside and scream at the top of my lungs: THE DRARRY IS HERE!!!!!!)
> 
> a medley of kinks featuring everyone’s favourite boys! or, a classic 5+1 format with 5 times Draco didn’t let Harry come, and one time that he did.
> 
> this one is a wee present for Starry, Tacky and Tee who were such lovely readers and kept hyping me up all through this wild adventure of mine of writing 28 tiny fics in 35 days! it’s not much, but it’s honest work, as my mama would say. so, thank you 💛
> 
> right, before you dive in, please picture me sitting in a white metal frame bed and you all are sitting around me scared of the thunderstorm and I am singing to you about how 🎵 these are a few of my favourite things. 🎵
> 
> this to say that this fic is just very self indulgent falling in love through shagging featuring a very adventurous slaggy Harry Potter and a confident hung Draco Malfoy because I know what I’m about!
> 
> however! it does come with a little note about _the scary tags_ : I went a wee bit wild with the wildcard (ha!) but because I divided the fic into six parts it’s easy enough to skip what you’re not into. 
> 
> I imagine that most people would want to skip blood/knife play so when you get to the end of the section titled iv. june 2001, skip part v. and jump straight into vi. january 2002
> 
> in case you want to skip a specific different kink, the kinks assigned to the parts are as follow:
> 
> i. january 2000: breathplay  
> ii, january 2001: hair pulling  
> iii. april 2001: impact play  
> iv. june 2001: electrostim  
> v. september 2001: blood/knife play
> 
> part vi. january 2002 is a lot milder and kind of a mixture of things but there’s no impact play, electrostim or blood/knife play! 
> 
> all six parts of the fic feature edging and/or orgasm control/delay/denial as that’s the main theme throughout the whole story
> 
> if you have any doubts/worries or want specifics/full spoilers for what happens, feel free to send me a wee message on tumblr and i’m happy to talk you through my 6k of debauchery!
> 
> read safely, fuck safely, love you, bye and thank you for reading xxx

**i. january 2000:**

_Potter isn’t nearly as slick as he thinks he is,_ is all Draco can think about through the alcohol haze and the dizzying atmosphere of the club. He really, really isn’t. Potter is across the club, surrounded by his usual entourage, looking at Draco when he thinks Draco isn’t looking back. 

He does it whenever Draco looks down at whatever fruity cocktail Pansy is making him drink, or when he’s leaning into her to hear her say whatever she’s bitching about now. Draco isn’t listening to Pansy. Mostly because he’s looking back at Potter. Catching him _every single time._

Potter really isn’t good at this. At pretending.

Draco stopped pretending Potter is not attractive long ago.

Potter hadn’t suddenly become kind or any nonsense like that. He scowls at Draco all day long, a sad little frown on his handsome face — there so often it almost looks like it belongs. But Draco sees him, like this, when they’re not at work. Draco knows that at night, Harry Potter replaces that frown with a shy smile and hungry eyes.

It doesn’t help that Draco keeps getting partnered up with Potter since Weasley walked out. He doesn’t want to complain — no one else in the Auror Training Program so much as tolerates him. Potter is his best option. And they’re well matched. They’re well matched working case files, they’re well matched interrogating, and Salazar, they are well matched dueling. 

Where Draco is logic, Potter is instinct; where Draco is attention to detail, Potter is people-reading skills; where Draco is finesse, Potter is sheer unbridled power.

And it certainly didn’t escape Draco’s notice that the last time they were made to duel, he’d ended up on the floor, with Potter’s hard prick pressed against his thigh.

All in all, Potter really isn’t as slick as he thinks he is. But it’s fine by Draco if Potter wants to pretend. 

Draco can’t help but think about that now — about Potter’s hard-on rubbing against him — as he watches him. Potter and his tight grey jeans and his black shirt with too many buttons undone for it to be considered _proper_. Most importantly, Potter and his tiny _pearl necklace_ that looks so out of place, bright and stark against Potter’s skin and the dark shirt, that it’s… so _wrong_ it works.

Potter is stupid enough that he thinks it’s a genuine accident when Draco walks into his path and Potter has no time to stop himself from slamming face-first into Draco’s chest.

“Look where you’re going, Potter,” Draco spits.

Potter has the audacity to look sheepish. He runs his hand through his mess of a mane and Draco wants nothing but to lick him, right there on all that exposed skin, navel to jaw.

“Sorry, Malfoy,” he says. And then, still only a few inches away from Draco, “I thought you said you were tired after training. Didn’t think you’d be out.”

Draco shrugs. “Pansy has an alcohol and loud music dependency. I couldn’t handle her crying on my sofa, so I sacrificed myself,” he lies comfortably.

He doesn’t know who moves first or why or exactly how, but he knows that Potter’s tongue tastes beer-bitter, his lips are as soft as they look and Potter is hard against him as Draco presses him further into a dark corner in hopes they won’t get disturbed.

“Fuck,” Potter practically moans and Draco wonders if he’s drunker than he thought he was because there is no way this is actually happening.

Draco rolls his hips against Potter and Potter moans again, low and gravelly, _“fuck.”_

_“Merlin, Potter, get yourself together, I’ve barely touched you.”_

Draco only realises he said it out loud when Potter says, “what’re waiting for, then?”

He really doesn’t fancy getting kicked out of one of his favourite Muggle clubs for indecency but there’s no way he’s stopping this — not when it might be his only chance. 

So he presses Potter against the wall harder, and nips at his lips, his jaw, his Adam’s apple, his collarbone and Potter just takes it, Potter takes it like he’s no longer pretending. Like he wants this as much as Draco does. 

Draco lets his hands explore, going straight for Potter’s peachy bum, pulling him closer into himself. Draco is on the verge of coming already, the friction of denim against denim and his trapped cock against the heat of Potter’s turning out to be too much. 

He keeps one hand in Potter’s back pocket and brings the other one up to Potter’s hair and is surprised at how soft it is, which just makes Draco want to touch it even more. His fingers find the back of Potter’s necklace as Draco plays with his hair, and he can’t help but pull a little, play with the small beads between his fingers, see what happens.

“Uh,” Potter starts. “Malfoy, ah! Fuck. Fuck. That’s good.”

Draco feels his pants getting stickier with precome at Potter’s words. Potter _likes it. Shit._

“Potter,” Draco whispers against Potter’s neck. Brings his hand from Potter’s pocket and grabs his chin roughly, squeezing his cheeks between thumb and forefinger. “Do you like the feeling of that around your neck?”

“Mhmm,” Potter says, and nods.

“Do you want my hand?”

“Fuck,” he sighs. “Please.”

And Draco has his work cut out for him. He alternates between pulling on the necklace, gently — Merlin forbid he _breaks_ it — and squeezing the sides of Potter’s throat with his hand. 

All while he rubs himself against Potter, shamelessly. All while he lets Potter ravage him, touch him all over, kiss his mouth, his ears, his neck. 

Emboldened by Potter’s reaction, he takes it a step further, and speaks against Potter’s lips. 

“Don’t come.”

Potter whines.

“I don’t want you to come,” he repeats.

Potter goes very still and looks at him with very open eyes, like a rabbit trying to throw off prey.

“You don’t want to anyway, do you?” Draco continues.

“You’re not going to come. You’re not going to come when you go home tonight. You’re going to be good. And you’re going to wait until tomorrow. For as long as you can take it. And tomorrow you’re going to touch yourself, Potter, you’re gonna stroke yourself and you’re going to be thinking of me when you do it,” he says, rutting desperately, at the thought Potter in his own home, fucking himself to thoughts of Draco.

Draco comes in his pants, suddenly and hard, heart beating in unison with the music, when Potter says “fuck, yes, fuck, I’ll be thinking of you, please, Malfoy.”

He doesn’t bother finding Pansy before he heads home. 

* * *

**ii. january 2001:**

“You’re drunk,” Draco says as Potter stumbles into his house, knocking into Draco’s arm with his shoulder as he does.

Draco isn’t sure why he is here or how Potter even knows where he lives, but _he is here_ and he looks a complete wreck.

Draco closes the door behind him and says, “What can I do for you, Potter?” thinking a healthy bowl of pasta and a glass of water may be in order. He may even have a sobering potion in the bathroom sink cabinet upstairs.

That’s when the most surprising thing happens. Potter launches himself at Draco, grabbing the back of Draco’s neck with a wide cold hand that makes Draco shiver, and makes to pull Draco down into a kiss.

They’ve done this before, of course, that one time at the club. Draco hasn’t forgotten. Draco wishes he had, but it’s all he thinks about when he wanks. All he thinks about when he closes his eyes, really. But that was a year ago. And they’d never discussed it after that night. Just because it happened before it doesn’t mean it’s something they do.

“What are you doing?” Draco asks, but doesn’t pull back. He asks it against Potter’s lips, a prickle of nervous energy buzzing under his skin, all over. 

“Make me feel good, Malfoy,” Potter says, and kisses him. Draco lets him. “Please, Malfoy,” he says again when they break apart. “Like you did that night.”

Now _that_ pleases Draco greatly and he kisses Potter back properly, hands sliding around Potter’s waist. A little voice on the back of his head reminds him he shouldn’t, Potter isn’t sober. 

“Please, Draco, you made me feel so good, so safe. I want it, please.”

Potter isn’t sober, but Potter is begging. And that weighs greatly in Draco’s decision making abilities right that second.

“Have you been thinking about me this whole time?” He asks, and slides his hands under Potter’s jumper and t-shirt, finding deliciously warm skin. He kisses up Potter’s jaw all the way up to his ear and whispers, “Have you been thinking about me?”

He expects Potter to deny, to pull back then. The man loves a challenge. But he doesn’t, not this time. He lets his body sag against Draco’s the tiniest little bit and says, “Yeah. Make me feel good, Malfoy. Please.”

Draco drags him over to his sofa, pushes him down. It’s odd, really, this Potter who doesn’t fight back. It’s odd because there’s no loud music, and they’re not in a rush to get off in a dark corner of a club, surrounded by a mass of bodies and lit by a kaleidoscope of dancing colours. And it’s odd because it’s out of place. Because Potter is in his house, begging for Draco.

Draco climbs onto Potter, thighs against thighs and repeats the words he said that night, a year back. “Don’t come,” and Potter’s head falls back, exposing his throat to Draco. Draco pushes Potter’s jumper and t-shirt up and helps him get out of them, before chucking them on the floor. 

He lets himself look, despite the fact he _has_ before — more times than he probably should have— in the locker rooms at work. But never like this. Never this close. He mourns the lack of the small pearls around Potter’s neck and decides he’ll have to make do with what he has, letting his open palm travel over Potter’s abs and chest to finally settle low on his neck, squeezing gently. Potter gasps and a feeling of euphoria settles comfortably over Draco, just from the simple fact that he knows what Potter likes. 

He’s hard as a rock, but if he wants to make this last, make it good for Potter, he’ll have to wait. He uses both hands to help Potter out of his trousers, and sighs at how much he wants to dive straight in and suck him off until he’s crying. He won’t though. Not yet.

“Potter, what exactly do you want?” He asks, and trails his fingers up from the coarse hair around Potter’s cock, up his chest, and into Potter’s open mouth. Potter sucks on Draco’s fingers with a wild hunger, like they’re coated in honey. As if Draco himself is the Ambrosia the gods promised. 

Draco squeezes Potter’s neck rhythmically, squeezing tight and letting go, and doing it again, watching for Potter’s reactions as he continues to suck on Draco’s fingers. Draco lets go when Potter pulls his head back and says, “Fuck, Malfoy. So good.”

And Draco’s _barely touched him._

Which he resolves quickly by wrapping his hand around Potter’s cock, making him raise his hips up in unconscious response. “Relax,” he says. “You want this, Potter. You came to my house, at this hour, for me to make you feel good. Let me.”

Draco keeps a tight grip around Potter’s neck as he wanks him, slow and hard and watches as Potter’s breaths get shallower and shallower. Draco knows he’s made a mistake almost immediately in not freeing his own cock, because the pressure is torture but he doesn’t want to let go of Potter just yet.

“Is this what you wanted, Potter? What you’ve been thinking about?” He asks, and Potter nods, vigorously, eyes unfocused and mouth slack. 

“Have you been wanking to the thought of me?” He presses further, testing the waters. Seeing how gone Potter really is.

“Fuck. Yes. All the time. Please, Malfoy,” he says, in gasps.

“Don’t come,” Draco says again, with a mean little twist of his wrist that Potter repays him with a whine.

“Wanna suck you,” Potter says, lips wet.

Draco has to try very hard not to come in his pants, like last time. “Get on your knees,” he says, letting go of Potter and climbing off.

Potter does, in one of the most devastating displays of submission Draco has ever witnessed. Draco sits on the sofa, spreads his legs and undoes his trousers just enough for him to be able to get his cock out. 

Potter moans at the sight of it and says, “Jesus Christ, I knew you were big like this.”

Draco had his suspicious Potter would be a size queen, at this point. Or hopes, maybe. Who knows, really, at this point? Who would have a spare thought in their brain when _Harry Potter_ has rather unceremoniously wrapped his lips around their cock? Certainly not Draco.

“Fuck, Potter. You’re a little cockslut, aren’t you?” He says, because his filter has gone out of the window the moment Potter’s eyes lost most of their green sparkle to the black of his blown-up pupils.

He looks up at Draco like he knows what he's thinking, like he wants Draco to be watching him, glasses still perched atop his nose, wonky and half fogged, choking on Draco’s dick. 

Potter gasps for air when Draco’s hand wraps around his curls, now so much longer than they were a year ago but just as soft. “Malfoy, please,” he says, pulling his mouth off Draco’s cock and lapping at the head.

“Please what?” Draco asks.

“Pull harder,” Potter says, and fucking hell, if Potter isn’t a kinky fucker with his off-hand requests to get choked and get his hair pulled.

Draco does, twisting a fistful of hair around his hand and pulling just enough that Potter can keep bobbing on his cock the way he is.

“God, yes. Fuck. Draco, please,” Potter says, and Draco keeps pulling.

Potter’s hands remain where Draco can see him, one around the base of his cock, holding it up so Potter can keep sucking him off like it’s the last thing he’ll do, and the other is on Draco’s thigh, squeezing and digging its nails into the skin sporadically. 

There’s nothing stopping Potter from touching himself, but he isn’t, and the thought that Potter is here, moaning and grunting around his cock, just from the feeling of Draco in his mouth and Draco’s hand in his hair, does him in.

“Fuck Potter, wait, I’m— shit, I’m gonna come,” he says, and Potter pulls back, sits prettily on his haunches and _opens his mouth, expectantly._

If Draco wasn’t already about to come, that would have done it, he’s certain. 

He’s also certain that the picture of Harry Potter on his knees with Draco’s come all over his face — his glasses, his cheeks, his tongue, his chin — is not one Draco is going to forget in a very, very long time. 

Potter never even asks to come. He cleans himself up, a mixture of wiping his face with his t-shirt and a gentle Scourgify and kisses Draco almost gently, before pulling his jeans on, grabbing his things and Apparating away.

The next day Draco walks into work to find out that Potter, along with four other Aurors, had been caught up in a nasty crossfire the night before. Potter had been the only one not to end up at St. Mungo’s with serious injuries. The feeling of uneasiness doesn’t leave him for the rest of the week.

* * *

**iii. april 2001: **

It turns out maybe having sex is something Draco and Potter are doing now. At least Draco thinks so when Potter corners him in the loos next to the bullpen, without even looking around to make sure they’re alone, and says, “Can I come to yours tonight?”

They’ve not spoken about it since the day Potter showed up at his, drunk and wanting his hair pulled and his face covered in Draco’s spunk. 

Potter is next to him at the sinks, hip to hip, and watches Draco wash his hands. Their eyes meet in the mirror first, and then Potter turns to Draco just slightly and says, quietly, “I like your hands.”

Draco raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t ask for any clarification. 

“I want you to spank me,” Potter says.

Draco doesn’t know what his face does then, but he knows what his dick does — going from 0 to 100 in no time whatsoever. 

“I want you to spank my arse red until I’m crying. I won’t come. I promise. I’ll be good.”

Why is Potter telling Draco this in the middle of the workday in the Ministry loos? And why does Draco like it so much?

“Come on, Malfoy, I know you’ll make it good for me. I’ll blow you again.”

Draco finishes washing his hands and steps away from Potter, taking a deep breath as he dries them.

“Mine. At 8. Don’t be late,” he says, and doesn’t wait for Potter’s reply.

Potter is, as promised, good. He’s so fucking good Draco is a little worried he may get used to this. Accidentally. If it keeps happening. 

Potter undresses when he’s told to. He fits over Draco’s knee like he belongs there. Draco can feel Potter’s hard cock — both a distraction and a reward as his hand delivers blow after blow on Potter’s perfect arse. 

Draco relishes in every gasp, every hum and every whine, but is surprised at how well Potter takes it all. Draco knows it has to sting like hell now, even when he slaps a little higher or a little lower from the swell of Potter’s round arse, but Potter only whines, the whole time through, thrusts forward against Draco’s legs and lets out the odd “fuck” or “Malfoy.”

He can’t help but keep spreading Potter’s cheeks open, making him wince in expectation, but never following through. Potter gasps when Draco slaps his sore arse and then whines when Draco digs his nails in just a little too hard.

Draco doesn’t know what Potter’s game is at this point, not that he’s complaining. But if Potter wants Draco to break him, he will.

So Draco pushes, “Do you want to come, Potter?”

He only gets a high pitched “hnnngg” as a reply.

“You do, don’t you? I can feel how hard you are, I can feel you humping my leg shamelessly, you dirty little slag.”

Potter moans at that.

“You want to, but you’re not going to. You’re going to get on your knees like the pretty thing you are, and you’re gonna blow me.”

Potter doesn’t need to be told twice, he gets on his knees and waits, looking up at Draco. Then he says, “Can I see you? All of you?” and Draco realises Potter has never seen him fully naked, despite Draco having his way with him twice now.

Draco makes a show of it. Unlacing his brown brogues, taking his belt of, pulling his shirt up and unbuttoning every single button slowly. When he’s down to his underwear, Potter is panting in front of him. 

He reaches for the waistband of Draco’s briefs and asks, “Can I?”

Draco nods and watches as Potter peels them down slowly, like he’s unwrapping a very precious present. 

The last time, Draco had only hooked his pants just under his balls and let Potter go to town. The look on Potter’s face this time is one hundred percent worth getting fully undressed for.

“Oh my god,” Potter exhales. “You’re so fucking fit.”

Something very warm and very bright suddenly makes its presence felt very deep in Draco’s chest. He chooses to ignore it and aims his prick at Potter’s waiting mouth. 

It is an absolute disgrace how quickly Draco is ready to come whenever Potter is near. How he’ll come in his pants like a fourteen year old, or how he’ll lose his cool after the mere hint of Potter’s breath on his crotch. So he says, “stop.”

Potter does.

He gets up and pulls Potter closer to the sofa.

“Bend over, chest on the sofa.”

Potter looks up at him, a little confused.

“Bend. Over.” Draco says, again.

Potter does.

Draco realises his plan to focus on something else and not come has backfired spectacularly as Potter positions himself with his face down on the sofa cushions and his perky bum up in the air, for Draco’s taking.

He could come right there, just from looking and he squeezes the base of his cock a little too hard just to keep his cool. 

Potter consents to being eaten out in the most enthusiastic way and Draco takes his time licking over the sore and swollen skin on Potter’s cheeks, slowly getting closer and closer to what both of them want. 

He alternates slow long licks over Potter’s rim and fully fucking him with his tongue. Potter’s grunts and the way he desperately grabs at the sofa cushions have him going wild, and it’s not long until Potter gasps, “fuck, I can’t, Draco, I can’t, I’ll come if you don’t stop.”

Draco stops and comes over his own fist with a cry.

They stay like that for a while. Half sprawled, half spent. And Draco feels a little sorry at the sight of Potter’s red weeping cock, but Potter seems happy. Satisfied, even. 

Potter kisses him after a while and Draco strokes him slowly to ease his guilt at his torture. He keeps telling him, like he did that first time at the club, “You’re gonna stroke yourself for me tomorrow, aren’t you? Gonna come thinking of me. Of my cock in your mouth and my tongue in your arse,” and Potter begs him to stop before he comes, again.

* * *

**iv. june 2001:**

They can’t go more than a couple of weeks without knocking on each other’s doors, desperate, wanting. Or rutting against each other at work. Or making up late nights working a case that isn’t even that urgent just so they can suck each other’s cocks.

Potter enjoys rummaging through the little trunk at the bottom of Draco’s bed, full of toys, rope and leather. Draco lets him.

Potter isn’t nice to Draco at work. The scowling and sad smiles are long gone, though. He’s not nice, but he’s not… _not nice._ And Draco likes that. He’s nice enough when he’s like this, straddling Draco in his bed, holding something behind his back that Draco can’t see. When he tells Draco, “I like that you don’t let me come sometimes. I like that you have control over that. And I come so hard when I fuck myself at home and I think of you.”

It turns out Harry is holding Draco’s small but powerful electric wand. It’s magically operated, but it works just like the Muggle stuff. “Like a cattle prod,” the lady at the sex shop had told Draco with a devious twinkle in her eyes. 

“It looks like a lightsabre,” Harry says, smiling.

Draco doesn’t know what a lightsabre is but, truth be told, he doesn’t know what Potter is on about half of the time. 

“Do you want me to show you what it does?” He asks.

Unsurprisingly, Potter does.

He lies down, starfished on Draco’s bed. 

“It’s okay if you don’t like it,” Draco says. 

“I like everything you do to me,” Potter replies in that way that is so quintessentially him — both honest and disarming, all at the same time, and Draco’s pulse quickens.

Harry yelps when Draco zaps him on his thigh.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

“Too much?” Draco asks, and strokes his hand over Potter’s thigh in one of the gentlest touches they have ever shared.

Potter likes it. Draco doesn’t know why he’s so surprised, Potter has liked most things so far. He’s not massively into being restrained, which Draco doesn’t mind. He’ll try anything though, Draco’s convinced. 

But the electrostimulation? Potter loves it.

Draco takes his time teasing him. Zapping him with the wand, and then licking the area right after. Stroking Potter’s cock, and sending a jolt of electricity through him when he's sufficiently distracted. 

“Potter, fuck, look at you. Look at how much you want this.”

Potter whines, loud and helpless and Draco clicks the small button again, pressing it against Potter’s inner thigh, sending a tiny little jolt through him.

“You want this so bad. You want me, don’t you? You keep coming back. You can’t help it, and time and time again, you end up in my bed.”

Draco has no ground to stand on, at all. But Potter doesn’t need to know that. He doesn’t need to know how much Draco wants him to keep showing up on his doorstep. To keep looking at him across the bullpen the way he does, to keep accidentally touching him at the pub — subtly, softly, making Draco’s pulse quicken and cock stir awake.

It’s not a conscious decision, but Draco knows as Harry’s back arches off the bed that he needs Potter to fuck him. Tonight. 

“Salazar, Potter. You’re such a slut. Touch yourself for me, will you?”

He drops the _lightwhatever_ on the bed and watches Harry grab his prick with desperate hunger.

“Don’t come. You’ll ruin the surprise.”

Draco preps himself with the practicality of a desperate man. One finger, two fingers, three fingers, _that will do._

He doesn’t know why it’s like that but when he sinks down on Potter’s cock, Potter’s eyes locked on his, he knows that this is about to be the most intense shag of his life. 

“You want me to keep you. Don’t you, Potter?” Draco says, and fuck, he’s gonna come if Potter doesn’t stop feeling so fucking good. “I think you want me to keep you.”

Harry grabs Draco’s hips and helps him rock himself up and down on his cock.

“Fucking hell, Potter, that feels good. Look at you. How badly do you want to come?”

Potter bites his lip, a row of white straight teeth sinking under his bottom lip with such force Draco leans forward and runs his fingers over Potter’s mouth until he relaxes his mouth again.

“Is this what you wanted, Potter? Is this what you came here for? You want me to keep you, I know. To use you whenever I want, isn’t that right? Your arsehole, your mouth, your prick. All mine. Like your orgasms. Mine. Mine to have, mine to control.”

Potter lifts his hips up, meeting Draco halfway, hitting his prostate dead-on as he does. 

“Fuck.”

Potter tries to keep fucking into Draco, pants growing faster and lower and Draco says, “Don’t you dare come, Potter. Don’t you fucking dare. If you come I’m going to take this,” he holds up the sex toy from the bed, “and I’m going to use it on you until your brain is fried, until it smells like charred meat in this room.”

Potter moans at the threat, but lowers his hips back down and lets Draco resume his earlier job of slowly fucking himself on Potter’s cock. 

“Look at you. So well behaved, you. I think I really may keep you, you know?” He says, a teasing tone in his voice.

Not long after Potter is begging, little hiccoughs falling from his reddened wet lips. Draco rolls his hips back and forth, relishing in that feeling of fullness and just how hard Potter is inside him.

“Please, Malfoy, please, I’ll do anything.”

 _Anything_ , he says. Draco likes the sound of that.

“Anything, Potter? Then make me come. Make me come, and maybe I’ll let you.”

He won’t. They both know he won’t.

“Maybe I’ll keep you,” he says, lowering himself on Potter’s cock a little harder as Potter wraps his hand around Draco’s cock. “I’ll keep you, if that’s what you want. All for myself.”

“God, Malfoy. Oh god,” Potter all but whispers, one hand stroking Draco at an unforgiving pace, the other one grabbing the cushion behind his head. “Keep me, Malfoy, please, Draco, keep me.”

* * *

**v. september 2001:**

The piece of parchment the unfamiliar owl delivers to Draco at a truly indecent hour reads, _“I was going to ask you earlier, but you left the Ministry before I had the chance. Should we celebrate being made partners privately? Harry x”_

Draco sighs, then laughs at Harry's shamelessness. He flips the parchment over and writes on the back, Muggle pen struggling over the parchment, _“Come over. - D.M.”_

Harry is sober. He’s rarely sober when he shows up at Draco’s. He’s carrying a cotton tote bag when he steps out of the Floo, eyes bright and smile arresting.

They’re not dating, not really. At least it hasn’t been discussed. Pansy says they are. Pansy may have a point. Thing is, they’ve not discussed it, so they aren’t.

Harry kisses him, almost shyly, then says, “hello.”

“Hello, Potter.” And then, because curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back, he asks, “What’s in your bag?”

Harry blushes, then smiles. “Cake,” he says.

Draco notices there’s still something at the bottom of the bag when Harry pulls out the square white box, but he doesn't say anything. Harry flips the top open on the box so Draco can look inside at the brightly iced cake that reads _“Congratulations Aurors Potter and Malfoy.”_

“Hermione made it,” Harry says.

“Oh.” Draco says, stupidly. “That’s… nice.”

“We’re going to be okay, aren’t we?” Harry asks, and Draco doesn’t know what to make of that.

“How do you mean?”

“We’re not meant to be Auror partners if we are… uh…”

“Fucking?” Draco supplies.

“Yes.”

“They’ll never fire you, Golden Boy,” he says, as he grabs a knife from the kitchen counter and starts slicing the cake. “You don’t have to worry.”

Harry’s eyes never leave Draco’s hand as he cuts the cake. One slice, and then the other. Draco watches him back: eyes wide, surveying every movement of Draco’s hand.

“Draco,” Harry says, suddenly. Serious.

“Yeah?”

“There was something else. There’s something… I don’t think it’s in your box.”

By Draco’s box, Harry means the trunk upstairs with all the sex toys and other paraphernalia. There isn’t a lot that Draco doesn’t have in that trunk and that piques his curiosity. 

Harry’s hand dives into the cotton tote bag, fishing for a little while, and brings out a box. He slides it over the table and Draco’s breath catches and he blinks very, very slowly.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” Harry says.

Draco isn’t often lost for words. In fact, he doesn’t quite remember the last time he didn’t have something rude or self-deprecating as a quick answer to something. But he truly doesn’t know what to say. He just looks at it, between them. 

“Will you cut me?”

It’s a can of worms like one that’s never been opened before. 

The cake is forgotten. Harry, and the blade in the box, are dragged into the bedroom with an urgency Draco has never felt in his life.

Harry looks sad, when he looks at Draco again, sitting on Draco’s bed, looking impossibly small.

“Hey,” Draco says. “I just want to understand. You never… I know you like pain. But I don’t know—“ 

Words are hard. His mouth is heavy, dry, broken.

Harry reaches a hand out and touches Draco’s chest. Draco is wearing a long sleeved jumper but he recognises the pattern as Harry traces it. Collarbone to nipple. Top rib to belly button. Navel to hip. 

_Draco’s scars._

“Harry.”

“We don’t have to. I really want you to, though. I trust you. I want you to know I trust you. I have never—“

Draco has done it before, he has. With people he probably trusted less, people who definitely shouldn’t have trusted him. 

He grabs the small knife off the bed and breaks the seal open on the box. 

“Okay,” he exhales.

“Yeah?” Harry asks, excitedly.

“Yes. Do you want blood?”

_“Please.”_

They kiss for the longest time. Undressing each other, cocks sliding against each other in a torturous tease. Draco is half turned on into oblivion, half in dire need of a Calming Draught. He kneels between Harry’s legs and takes Harry’s thick cock in his mouth, relaxing the both of them as he does. 

“Do you want to come?” He asks Harry, a little after.

“No. Please. Just do it. I want it, Draco. Make me feel good.”

Draco fights the tears that threaten to spill. 

Harry lies on his back and Draco straddles his waist. 

“Arms?” He asks. 

“And legs. Whatever you want, Draco. Please.”

He begs just as beautifully as he would for Draco’s cock, just as he would ask Draco to stop if he was too close to coming, just as he would for an extra spank or a harder grip on his hair or around his throat.

Draco runs the dull side of the blade against Harry’s neck and he moans. He runs it down Harry’s shoulder, all the way down his arm. Draco knows how that feels. Just the knowledge that the blade is that close, is enough to have one’s skin break into goosebumps. The expectation, the thrill. The cold of the steel against the warmth of the skin.

He does it a few times, all over Harry’s body, before he carefully flips it around and cuts a small line down Harry’s upper arm without blood.

Harry hisses as he does.

“More,” he asks.

Draco does it on Harry’s arms and then on his thighs. 

“Draco, please,” Harry says, and Draco bites his lip. He drags the blade a little harder against Harry’s thigh and gasps, just as Harry does too.

There it is. 

Bright and crimson as hell itself, Harry’s blood. It’s only a little line, blood bubbling to the surface like lava in a volcano, but Harry moans when he looks down. 

“Yes,” he says.

So Draco does it again, something akin to prayer running in his head. A litany of worries, a rosary of inventory (“ _where’s the Blood Replenishment potion, where’s the Dittany, what spells do I cast if—“_ ), but Harry’s pants get quicker and quicker and his erection never flags.

Neither come that night, although Harry is in near ecstasy when Draco cuts a small shallow line across his chest.

Draco cleans Harry’s wounds with the most care he has put into any task since that fucking Vanishing Cabinet and wraps Harry in a blanket, strokes his hair until sleep takes him.

When Harry is finally settled he whispers, more to himself than to Harry. “Shit, I’m in love.”

* * *

**vi. january 2002**

Harry Potter feels like a violent storm brewing. Heaving and roiling above Draco, leaden and ready to burst, on a bright warm late summer’s day.

Harry Potter touches Draco like he’s learning him. Like Draco is a long lost lover. Like Harry is the sun and the heat coming back when the winter snow melts, as it takes in Draco’s shape again, studies his edges, grasps the parts of him no one sees.

Harry Potter loves like he once knew Draco. In the past. Not _their_ past. In a past that doesn’t actually exist. In another life, another universe, another timeline. Harry loves like he will willingly take Draco’s sins, absorb his guilt, his aching and suffering. Like he will break Draco down into the barest version of himself and baptise Draco anew. He loves like a small animal you bring in from the cold that takes to protecting you just as much as you protected them in the first place — like a snake coiling around an arm, like a cat weaving between one’s legs, like a curious bright-eyed toad perching on one’s shoulder, like a fire-red phoenix hovering above in the sky, never touching but never far.

Draco loves him just like this. Half asleep, a little restless. 

Harry rolls over and mumbles something that sounds like “morning.”

Draco doesn’t answer. It’s not acceptable to talk before tea. 

A sudden, weird feeling numbs his mouth and he opens one eye in time to see Harry put his wand away. 

He raises an eyebrow in a question.

“Want to kiss you,” Harry says. And kiss him he does. Draco realises as Harry puts his tongue into his mouth, with very little ceremony, that the weird feeling in his mouth was a teeth-cleaning charm. The cheeky sod.

Harry presses Draco against the mattress and climbs on top, continuing to attack Draco with small little pecks followed by long deep kisses.

It’s early, Draco feels like he’s had enough sleep for once and his boyfriend is on top of him snogging the living daylights out of him first thing in the day. So it’s not really his fault that all blood rushes South quite dramatically.

“Oh. Good morning,” Harry says, way too chirpy for the time of the day. But Draco has no complaints when Harry grinds down and their cocks meet.

Harry reaches for the vial of oil on the bedside table and grins down at Draco. He pours a little onto the palm of his hand and strokes both their cocks, coating them in the lube. 

He keeps grinding down, their pricks sliding together easily now they’re covered in oil.

“Just this?” Harry asks.

Draco can’t help but smile. He shakes his head no, then.

“Wanna fuck me?” Harry asks, then, eyes mischievous and joyful.

Draco groans in response. 

He works Harry open in comfortable silence, only cut by Harry’s little gasps and the squelch of the lube. Draco loses his edge when he finally thrusts into Harry with a breathless, “fuck.”

Harry is never quiet when they fuck. He begs, cries, urges Draco on, teases him. He gives as good as he gets, which is just his nature, really. Draco wouldn’t ask him not to. Would never want him to be any different. 

Harry wraps his legs around Draco, and traps him into that shallow thrust that’s perfect for a morning fuck. Just Draco’s hand putting a little pressure at the base of Harry’s neck, on his collarbone, and Harry running his nails down Draco’s sides. Draco kissing Harry as he fucks into him again and again and Harry whispering against Draco’s lips “fuck, yes, God, yes, Draco, so good, so fucking big, I love it when you fuck me, oh God, oh God, oh God, right there.”

Draco mouths it at him at the same time that he wraps his hand around Harry’s thick cock. “Come.”

Harry continues babbling for a few seconds, “Keep going, uh, fuck, uh, Draco, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop— ah!”

It took them months of fucking for Draco to finally witness Harry coming, but Salazar was it worth it. 

It strikes Draco so intensely, every single time, that Draco always follows suit within seconds, no matter what. Harry comes panting, his mouth open wide, eyes shutting tight. He comes with a low, long cry and with long stripes of come painting his own chest or Draco’s or their fists. 

Mostly importantly, Harry only comes when Draco tells him to.

“Jesus,” Harry says, as Draco rolls off him and kisses his temple. “I love you.”

And Draco thinks, sod his “no words before tea“ rule, and whispers back, “I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> for a more hyperactive and extremely chatty version of me, come say hi [on tumblr](https://onbeinganangel.tumblr.com)


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